


Delicate Matters

by BeyondtheKilljoy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Cock Ring, Laundromat, M/M, ass eating, love of lingerie, more likely random something used as cock ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 09:27:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4216419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeyondtheKilljoy/pseuds/BeyondtheKilljoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Peter go to the same laundromat and Stiles can't help but be attracted to the older man. Peter is oblivious as he is absorbed with his phone while he's in the laundromat. One day, Stiles manages to catch his attention and also drop his clothes. Peter goes to help the cute twink and discovers Stiles has a thing for wearing lingerie. Female lingerie. Peter invites him back to his apartment for a cup of coffee (hint: not actually coffee).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delicate Matters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taylorpotato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylorpotato/gifts).



> First time writing smut, like actual smut and first time writing Steter.
> 
> Hopefully you enjoy!

Stiles had matured a lot since high school. He knew that, and he knew it wasn't just physical. He had been living in a city apartment for almost two years, juggled college and a job, and managed a decent social life still. 

But he’d be damned if he’d move all his games out of the small room in his apartment to make room for a washer machine. 

Which is how he ended up at the laundromat, whenever the pile got to large. It didn't really matter when he went, but it was usually around three in the morning on a weekday when he should have been writing a paper – or, better yet, sleeping. His plans had fallen through for this Saturday though, so at nine A.M., he loaded his Jeep and went to the laundromat. He was literally less than a block away, but his basket was always a lot heavier than what he felt like carrying. 

Needless to say, he had met a bunch of people in his adventures at the laundromat – the more notable ones, a group of drag queens that had almost ruined one of their dresses, a woman who was into BDSM and was washing her and her Master’s no leather play clothes, and a man who had spent two hours yelling at the dryers. 

None of it prepared him for when he walked through the doors and saw the new guy. He probably wasn't new, new, because he was moving around like he knew the place, but definitely new to Stiles. He wore a sharp v-neck, one that portrayed his collarbone and chest very well, one that clung to his arms, enunciating the sure muscles there. Stiles was pretty sure the shirt should have been somewhere in a porn video he had seen, not on this man. 

If that wasn't bad enough, if Stiles standing shock-still in the middle of the laundromat wasn't bad enough, that's when the man looked up from the phone in his hand to fix the settings on the washer. His eyes never swept the room, but if they had – if they had – he would see the flushed boy, with the dry mouth, staring unabashedly at him. His face was something to thank the heavens for, with enough facial hair to be sexy but not creepy. His hair held a touch of gray, his eyes an electrical blue. 

Stiles may have just stood there staring, as a common – but usually not this intense – feeling of want swept through him and filled him up, if not for the woman who accidentally bumped him with her basket because of how he was standing at the door. The gentle shove snapped him out of his embarrassing moment, so he stumbled forward a few steps, painfully aware that he was sporting a semi. 

“Excuse me, sweetheart.” She said pleasantly, as if he hadn't just obstructed her path in the rudest way possible. She had two children behind her, both looking much younger than school age. The older one yanked hard on the little girl’s pigtails, causing her to scream. Stiles back up, realizing that it was going to be one of those days. 

He scurried away from the family, towards one of the washers on the other side. He couldn't help but peek after laying his basket down to see if the man had looked up at the commotion. He seemed like he hadn't even glanced up from his phone, besides when he fixed the controls. After he got three running in a row, still furiously tapping away on the Blackberry, he left, never even noticing how Stiles burned a hole into him with his stare.  
\--  
Over the next few months, Stiles perfected his schedule. Saturday mornings were no longer mornings to recover from a hangover, or to be over at Scott’s place for morning games. It was time to be at the laundromat, to get a good few minutes of ogling the man. He would leave every day, after setting his stuff in the wash. He wouldn't look up from his phone and he wouldn't return until it was time to put it in the dryer. Stiles wasn't ashamed to admit that some of the time his stuff was pretty much done, but he'd hang around to catch a look at him again. 

It was the day after the Pride walk, Stiles had got a rainbow band bracelet, with a small rooster on it as a joke. He was grabbing the container from his Jeep, swinging towards the glass panes of the laundromat when he noticed something. 

The man wasn’t looking at his phone. Instead, he spoke to a woman, an easy smile on his face. The way his eyes watched her, even if it appeared she was slightly upset, held no doubt that whatever problem there was wouldn’t come out bad for him. Stiles tried not to hurry in, because holy shit his voice in Stiles’ memory could probably fuel a good more jacking off sessions than Stiles would admit. As he came close to the door, the man shook his head and the woman visibly relaxed. 

Stiles pulled open the door the same time she turned to leave. He had to try and bite back the disappointment, knowing that he was merely seconds late to hear what they were saying. The man slipped his fingers into his jeans, more than likely to pull out his Blackberry, when he caught sight of Stiles.

Stiles really didn't mean to stare that time, but he had never been caught before and could afford to get a little more messy than he usually was (which was already very, very, messy). He would have shot his gaze anywhere else in the room if the man didn't lock him in a stare. His blue eyes held such a strange and hungry curiosity that Stiles was trapped. 

Which is what he'd blame bumping into a folding table and dropping his clothes everywhere on.  
\--  
Peter hadn't really had the need to fix his washer. It was just as simple to carry it down the block to the laundromat. Like his dear niece would tell him, he really should get out some and take a step back from his book. So that was what he was doing. But for the few months he had been doing it, he would carry his bag of clothes in one hand and his phone in the other, clicking away notes for the next chapter or character development. 

He didn't stay either to make friends. Which is why, when a woman approached him to ask him if he was homeless – fucking homeless – and if that's why he walked to the laundromat, he tried to be as cordial as possible. He explained he lived less than a block away and didn't feel the need to take his car. He had just managed to appease the woman, so he could get back to redeeming one of his characters. 

As he went to pull his phone from his pocket, Peter couldn't help but scan the room. His eyes fell on a twink, who was moving his long limbs forward in what appeared to be a haze. The boy’s eyes drilled into Peter, a burning amber that did nothing to hide their intent. 

They widened as Peter met the gaze, the boy’s cheeks flaming up. His face, neck and arms were glorious shades of pale, with moles dropped haphazardly on his skin. Images of discovering where all the moles lay on him filled Peter’s head, heated up under his skin. The boy looked utterly wreckable, completely unsoiled. 

The boy slammed into a table and his clothes went spilling everywhere. Peter realized a chance when he saw one and rushed over to help. “Are your things alright?”

He bent to where the boy was kneeling, messily tossing things back into the hamper. The boy’s neck was flushed, and he was stammering that yes, he was sure it was fine, sorry. “Let me help you.” Peter’s hands brushed against the kid’s as he helped to pile the load in. 

And then he felt silk in his hands. 

Peter couldn’t help his curiosity, especially when the risk was so little. He lifted the item away from the denim and cotton around it, lifting it up for inspection. It was a thong, just as Peter expected. It was a light shade of cream, maybe a few shades darker than the wear’s skin tone. It had lace on the hem, a pretty inch of black. He chuckled slightly, wanting to strip the boy to see what kind he had today. The boy choked when he saw what Peter was examining, trying to force a explanation out of his mouth. 

Peter raised his gaze from the lingerie, to look at him. He smiled, knowing that it could look terrifying or exciting. From the way the boy’s breath caught, he took it as the latter. “I'm Peter.”

“Stiles,” the boy breathed out. His eyes darted back to his underwear, cheeks reddening again. With his lashes lowered, there were evident bruises under his eyes. 

“You must've been awfully tired to have not seen that table.” Peter suggested. “Or maybe you weren't watching where you were going.”

“I—I’ve been pretty tired lately.” Stiles responded, acting as if he hadn't just stared at Peter. 

“I have coffee at my place. Something to wake you up.” He could feel his grin widen. Peter knew his excuse was paper thin, but so was Stiles’ attempt to act like he didn't want it as well. 

Stiles’ pink tongue darted out to wet his lips. “I, uh,”

“I don't live far, just a little under a block or so.” 

“I have to put my stuff into the washer.” Stiles responded. “But I wouldn't mind some coffee after that.” 

“Hurry.” Peter rarely talked like that to strangers, actually rarely spoke commands. He believed that someone could get what they want through intelligence and not brute force. 

Stiles took it though, and moved over to the washers. His hands shook at they quickly threw things into the different machines. Peter let his eyes drink the boy in, the lean frame and wiry muscles that made up his arms and the long, thin fingers he had. Those fingers were way too long not to be put to use. He had a nice jaw, a strong nose and sinful lips. 

He was even playing with them now, despite how it set a fire in Peter. Stiles worried them in between his teeth. The bottom was quickly reddening, blood rushing below the skin. All of his skin looked like it was one layer, as if one bite or scratch could break him open. 

It was making Peter somewhat desperate, which never made him beg but rather – he would take. Do anything to claim his prize. 

Stiles was finally finished. He turned to look at Peter, immediately dropping the gaze when he saw he was already being looked at. He scurried over to where Peter waited. “Let's get some coffee?” He peeked up from his eyelashes, the pupils dilated. 

Peter knew he didn't think for a second that Stiles thought it was actual coffee. He might make him coffee, afterwards, but he wasn't really focused on that. “Okay, let's go.” 

Peter lead him quickly, walking away from the small parking area. Stiles trotted to keep up. “You didn't drive here?” 

“I live close enough.” Peter shrugged as they got on the busy sidewalk. He let Stiles slip in front of him, mostly to eye his ass. He watched as the boy often glanced back, a faint dusting of red across his neck and cheeks. Peter saw a expression, edged close to his irises, around the corners of his lips, Stiles looked like prey. 

Prey in lace panties. 

He stumbled to a stop a the one road way they had to pass. Peter pushed up close behind him. “Do you really think I'd believe that those panties were worn by anyone but you?” Stiles choked in front of him, chest heaving him a few inches forward. Peter edged his hand on the hem of Stiles’ pants, pulling him tight. “I bet they look amazing on you.” 

The pedestrian walk sign turned green and Peter pushed him forward. Stiles turned to say something to him, twisting quickly. Peter smirked, knowing that the twink was going nowhere anyway. “I think you are obstructing traffic.” He informed Stiles. 

Stiles made a face, like he was trying to be actually upset but was too embarrassed. He pushed closer to Peter, grabbing at his shirt. It actually took Peter by surprise, but he was still confident enough to keep his smirk. He just pushed so that he was walking beside him. “Shouldn’t you lead?” 

The way he slipped softly behind, after asking such an offhand question almost tripped Peter. He shouldn't have labeled the boy as unsoiled before he dug his hands into Stiles. 

He let an easy slope slip into his walk, and didn't glance back. His apartment was right next to the road, on the turning block. Peter turned into it easily, heading towards the elevator. The man who waited at the desk knew him too well, knew that he had a habit of bringing cute, young men up with him. Stiles followed through without questioning.

Peter waited patiently for Stiles to come in the elevator, smiling as he pressed the fifth floor. His phone buzzed though, and he had to fish it out to check on it. It was just one of his editors, on a chapter he wrote maybe a week ago. 

“Why are you always on your phone?” Stiles asked. 

Peter glanced up, watching the boy fidget across the small space. “I have to keep up with life.” 

Stiles snorted. “Everyone does, but that doesn't mean they get absorbed into the screen.”

“And, pray tell, how do you know I'm always on my phone?” It wasn't wrong, but Peter let his head tilt up and his eyes narrow as if it was anyway. 

Stiles blushed, and Peter let his head fall slowly to survey him fully. The boy must have been observing him for a bit if he knew how dedicated Peter was to his Blackberry. The elevator dinged, opening up to Peter’s floor. He pushed off the wall, dragging close to Stiles as he left the chute. 

He was the third door on the right, and didn’t hesitate to leave it open after he had entered. He could hear the footfall of Stiles as he walked in. “If you could, please remove your shoes.” 

Peter had no intention of getting the boy coffee, or anything of that sort but a distraction like this from his story was too good to let slip by. He watched as the lanky form in front of him curled in so that he could do as he was told. Stiles glanced up, eyes inquisitive. “Ah, so you are one of those homeowners.” 

“What do you mean?” Peter wanted to indulge the boy in a little conversation, because he looked pretty but he didn't seem clueless. 

“You know, the kind that asks for no shoes in the home, the one that drys the dishes after washing them, and takes out the however little trash.” Stiles elaborated, licking his lips before dropping his voice slightly. “The kind that doesn't like things messy.” 

Peter would be a liar – was a liar already, but typically not when it dealt with pleasure – if he said that the innuendo didn't make his insides light up. “Assumptions can't always be held true.” 

Stiles nodded, frozen in the process of taking his shoes off for a moment. He returned to the task, which Peter kindly let him finish before moving to crowd him. Stiles looked alarmed, backing up to the door. As if that would make Peter not want to get closer. 

He smiled largely, caging the boy in by his arms. “Didn't your parents ever teach you not to talk to strangers?” 

Stiles licked his sinfully red lips, staring at Peter’s. It's so transparent, it makes Peter want to laugh. “I, uh—I've always had a bit of a problem with listening to authority.”

“Maybe reason, too,” Peter said. “Anyone could have told you that I might have taken you to someplace bad.” 

“What if that's the only place I wanted to be?” Stiles breathed out a challenge. God, this boy was perfect. Peter fell tired of the banter and shifted forward the last few feet to kiss him. 

Stiles was eager, malleable. Peter kept him at an angry pace, roughly grabbing his jaw and feeling as it moved. The boy tasted of sugar and stale Coke and want, which wasn't a bad combination, and Peter couldn’t keep himself from stealing into his mouth to taste it deeper. 

Hot hands pushed at his chest, and for a moment, Peter was apprehensive that Stiles was trying to slow things. Instead, he was tugged closer, his V-neck dipping lower as Stiles grabbed at the fabric. “If this is the outcome from talking to strangers, I should have started sooner.” Stiles pulled back some, to pant around his mouth. 

“Over eager?” Peter murmured, pushing at the column on his neck with his nose. Stiles got the message apparently, and leaned his head back. Peter shuffled closer, forcing a thigh in between Stiles’ legs. He could feel himself swelling in his pants. 

He felt the heat, heard Stiles’ wild gasp as he dragged himself roughly over Peter. “Is it satin or lace today?” 

It threw Stiles, who pulled up, subconsciously still rutting. “Huh?” 

Peter's hands, which were edging slowly up under the boy’s flannel, scrapped roughly down to the hem of the denim. He pulled harshly, almost too harshly – if Stiles’ half-whimper, half-moan was anything to go by. He pulled his lips up, tasting moles, to the outer shell of his ear. 

“I asked a question, Stiles, and you should take care to heed it.” Peter let each syllable cut hard. “Is it lace or satin?” 

He understood then. “Oh, oh, it's—” the boy stammered. 

“I have limited patience.” But he still pulled back far enough to leave the boy wanting. Peter had no idea someone's skin could be so easily marked. His lips were a deep shade still, open in frustration, and his neck was as colored as a rose. “You'll have to tell me.” 

“Lace.” Stiles only hesitated for a moment, a look of shame crossing his eyes. It was swallowed up by lust. 

“Does it feel nice? Up against me like that?” Stiles simply grunted because Peter threw himself back into it. He let his hands feel across the boy’s torso, on the moles and his pert nipples. It made a new discovery, as his hands brushed across one of them. Stiles acted like he had been shot, lifting up from the door and gasping. 

Peter loved it.  
\--  
Stiles wasn’t necessarily a virgin, okay. He had been with plenty of people, and by that he meant a handful. Each one was more concerned on themselves, and this was the first time, the first time, he was focused on. As he let himself just feel, just surrender to the way Peter was biting and sucking his neck and how his warm hands mapped across his chest. 

And then Peter dragged his finger tip across Stiles’ nipple. He wasn't sure how his nerves could sing like that, could beg to be touched again. But Stiles let it happen, a gasp pulled from him. Suddenly he was talking, but that wasn't a surprise. Of course he couldn't expect to keep his silence. 

“Peter, please, please, oh god what?” He let himself ramble, lost in the man’s hands.

“Did you know,” Peter drawled, “that a lot of people actually have sensitive nipples? It's really not a rarity, but a boy wearing lingerie is.” 

Stiles groaned, mainly because Peter had twisted one of his nipples. But also, he wouldn't stop about Stiles wearing lingerie – he knew it to be uncommon, but he didn't want to talk about it. He loved the slow drag, the tight confine, it kept him on his toes, the way it would hold his hips and dig into his ass. 

“Peter!” He had found the edges of Stiles’ ribs, dragging across the line before running a palm over his nipples. Stiles let his hips buck up, the lace barely keeping him in. He could feel the edge of the underwear snagging on him. It bordered on painful but it felt beautiful. “Please, please.” 

His nails scraped down Stiles’ chest, probably leaving marks. Stiles couldn't wait to see. He wanted to feel it, he wanted to welt and bruise and let people know that he had been touched. And it was good. 

Peter grabbed at his shirt, lifting it up. The cold surprised him. “Okay, okay,” Stiles rambled, brain too short-circuited. Peter's hands were back on him, and so were his lips, edging on his collar bone. Stiles loved it. 

“Away from the door, come on, please, please,” Stiles let himself push at Peter, who – unfortunately – still had a shirt on. Peter dragged him by the loops of his pants away from the door. 

Stiles was too hopeful that the guidance of another would somehow null his clumsiness. He managed to trip across a table, splaying himself onto Peter. “Smart on your feet?” He laughed. 

Stiles could feel his neck get hot, and he let his mouth open and close for a few minutes before his erratic brain could give a comeback. “I'm plenty smart, just not very agile.” Wow, Stilinski, good one. Great. 

“Let's hope that's not completely true.” His smirk went straight to Stiles’ leaking dick. He spun, which, really, based off what he already saw of Stiles, should have known that was a bad idea. It left Stiles stumbling, and then falling through a room. Peter was pushing him back, though so when he finally lost his balance, he fell back on a bed. 

Panting, with his legs dangling off, he looked up at Peter. Today had been a whirlwind of his long-time crushing finally satisfaction and he was on the bed of the man he wanted. Peter stared at him, head tilted. Stiles didn't even think he knew how his neck muscles pulled and flexed. It was a sin, really, to be that a attractive. 

Peter finally let himself slowly creep over Stiles, again trapping him between his strong arms. Stiles closed the distance quickly, smashing their lips together and wrapping his hands on the back of his neck. It was hot, and Peter covered Stiles’ body with his own. Stiles only moved his head back to make a demanding sound. “Shirt off, take it off,” he complained. 

Peter shifted up to comply and holy shit. His torso was mostly hairless, and just as attractive as the rest. Stiles felt slightly embarrassed. Peter picked up his arm to place a kiss on the inside of his wrist. 

“A piece for a piece, correct?” A large smile broke across his face. Stiles could feel himself shaking, knew there was a wet spot at the front of his jeans and the lace would have the small holes filled with smeared white. “Take your pants off.” He dropped Stiles arm and pushed off. 

Stiles couldn't throw himself at it fast enough, fumbling with his belt. He hit himself sliding it off so fast, and he could see Peter, looming above him, chuckle at it. Bastard. The button popped quickly and Stiles had his hands on the hem before Peter could blink. But he hesitated, because he knew what was underneath. 

He knew why he liked the fit, why he enjoyed the colors and patterns on his skin but he hadn't shared it with anyone. When Peter had lifted his thong out of the hamper, Stiles could feel his heart stutter in fear. He didn't understand the way Peter responded but he wasn't going to complain. 

Peter’s hooded eyes watched Stiles pause. Tempting, looking to see what he'd do. Stiles wasn’t the type to not rise to the challenge. He shoved his pants down.  
\--  
Peter was usual the strong, silent type. But he had to groan at the beauty before him. Stiles managed to flail around enough to lose the jeans, and as soon as Peter saw the deep purple lace boy shorts in front of him, he was gone. 

He liked guys. But he had a thing for female outfits on them as well. 

Peter didn't drop do his knees, he didn't say a prayer of thanksgiving. Instead, he murmured a simple ‘good’, before sinking down to taste the lace. He could see Stiles through it, a large girth with a head that was shades away from violet. Peter outlined the strain with his tongue. 

The boy beneath him bucked his hips once, a beautiful curse slipping past his lips. Peter slid back, grabbing at his hips and holding them firmly. “Why don't you use that mouth to ask for what you want?” 

Stiles struggled to sit up, to stare at Peter with an abashed look. His face was such an alarming shade of red, Peter thought it looked as if he had just finished choking him. 

Which, hey, wasn't a bad idea. 

“Please…” His eyes swept down to his groin, the smallest shine in them. 

“Please what?” Peter said, watching as Stiles’ eyes darted back up. “Please touch you? Lick you? What do you want?” He let his thumbs run smooth circles on Stiles’ extruding hip bones. His own pants felt uncomfortably tight, but he set that knowledge aside so he could exchange quick pleasure for a much bigger one. 

“Take them off,” Stiles wailed. He dropped back on the bed, throwing an arm over his face. 

Peter was stunned. He looked down at the underwear his palms were touching, back up to the boy who was flushing for wearing them. He wasn't going to take them off. “Why? Hm, Stiles? Did none of your flings ever know about these? Are they a dirty,” he let his hand slide down to arc of the bulge, which looked to threaten to tear the lace, “little secret?” His palm dug down and forward, causing Stiles to cry out. 

“I like them too much,” he continued, the presence of his hand over the erection feather-light. “I wouldn't have asked you back here if I didn't and when I saw that thong,” Stiles whimpered. “When I saw the thong, I wouldn't have believed anything would have looked nicer on you.” He dragged his nails, with just a hint of pressure down the front of the lace material. “I was wrong, Stiles.” 

Peter started up mouthing on Stiles, nosing at the strands of hair that escaped the confines of the lingerie and licking at the dick that was begging to break free. Stiles couldn't help how he shifted every few minutes, craving that release, that friction. Peter doubted that he been properly played with before, and soaking up the royal purple shorts was just the beginning. 

When Stiles started to actually shake, like his legs quivering, Peter stopped. He pulled back to look at the mess above him. Stiles had his hands pulled tight in his hair, tears pricked in the corners of his eyes. Peter thought he might have even bitten through his lip. Peter leaned as far as he could to caress the boy’s face. 

“What do you want?” He breathed. Stiles, panting, didn't even bother with verbalizing, and instead dragged his mouth close to Peter's hand. He kissed it sloppily for a few minutes, making the palm extremely wet. It made Peter think he knew what Stiles wanted. 

Stiles then grabbed his wrist and pulled his fingers in his mouth. The way his lips closed around two of his digits left Peter reeling. He wanted to put Stiles on his knees, to see how far they'd stretch before the skin would tear and bleed but it wouldn't stop them. Oh, God, it wouldn't stop Peter. He pulled back his fingers from the wet heat and the thick tongue with reluctance. 

Stiles whined. “Sorry,” Peter replied. “But I have slightly different plans. And I have lube.” 

Peter typically kept it in three places – on the tv stand in front of his bed, in his drawer, and stuffed in the mattress. The last was the closest, and he was able to find one by quickly fishing around. Stiles sat up on his forearms to watch Peter, not that he'd be able to support himself much longer. 

Peter scooted back before hooking his fingers under the lingerie and pulling them off. He didn't want to be careful; hell, he wanted to mark up the boy’s body as if it was his to mark. Peter put a firm hand behind the knee of one Stiles’ legs before pushing it up and towards Stiles, who hissed from the cold. 

“Sensitive, are we?” Peter asked coyly. He could feel Stiles’ muscles lock in place. “Good.” 

He put the other leg up on his shoulder, staring at the pink hole before him. In his previous experience, it could go good or bad and he'd just have to figure it out. Peter leaned forward to lick a strip across the hole and the skin around it. 

Stiles jumped from the shock, a loud sound punched from him. Peter was pleased – especially since it tasted like Stiles knew how to clean himself. He pushed back towards the hole again, laying his tongue flat on it and rubbing back and forth. Every heightened gasp or tiny please Peter heard caused him to squeeze on Stiles’ leg. He hoped it'd bruise. 

Eventually, he pushed in with his tongue, exploring the tight, heated cavity. Stiles’ hands finally landed on him – he probably heard somewhere that it was bad to grab at your partner. To which Peter said, fuck yeah, grab him, hold onto him like he was everything because he would be right then. 

One hand circled Peter's wrist that was holding up his leg and the other found his hand on Stiles’ hip. They clutched at him, somehow speaking even more than Stiles himself did. Peter loved it. 

Unfortunately, Stiles wasn't up for lasting much longer, crying to Peter that he couldn't wait anymore, oh god, oh god. Peter circled a strong hand at the base of his dick. Stiles stopped his litany mid-word, a choked-off sound that Peter loved hearing coming out of his mouth. 

Peter saw that he wore a bracelet, a rainbow one. Stiles probably went to Pride yesterday. He grabbed it, temporarily dropping Stiles’ leg to get it. He had to loop it once to keep it on tight, but it looked like it bordered just shy of painful. “Okay?” Peter breathed, looking at the boy. 

His eyes were blown, and he looked like he might actually start crying, but he nodded his head yes. Peter officially decided that this boy was going down a path that could ruin him. 

He wasn't going to waste anymore time on prep, though he loved the tight feel in Stiles’ ass hole. Peter was pretty sure he would be able to have another day for fully eating the boy. He grabbed the lube, which he had placed near his knee, to coat three of his fingers and put it over Stiles’ hole was well. Stiles had taken the opportunity to spread wide for Peter, willing to please, but shuddered when the cold liquid touched him. 

Peter shot him an inquisitive look, but before he could ask, Stiles rushed out. “No, for fuck’s sake, don't stop here. You better fuck me, please, God.” 

It was the broken edge on the please that had Peter slipping a digit in. It went in surprisingly well, and Peter had sunk to the second knuckle with no trouble. He still crooked the finger, pushing and pulling to relax the muscle. It wasn't far from having a second one, which was a little more of work, but relatively easily. Stiles didn't even seem to have any discomfort. 

“You play with yourself.” Peter stated. It wasn't accusatory, but more like he was fact checking. 

“My wrists are double-jointed.” Stiles breathed out, half-way laughing. Peter would admit that the tone of voice was unusual for sex. 

Peter crooked his fingers hard, harshly pressing against the opposing muscle. “How many have you done before?” 

“What?” 

He was searching for it, the spot that would make Stiles wish that Peter had never put that bracelet on his dick, and have him begging to take it off. “How many fingers, Stiles? I'm assuming the last time was maybe even today, but how many fingers? Can you, ah—”

That's when he found it, seeing as Stiles bucked off the bed. Only his shoulders touched, and he sobbed a harsh sound. 

“—fit your whole fist?” Peter moved away from it. 

“Oh, that's—” Peter stroked the spot, his second knuckles helping him to angle better. Truthfully, he just wanted to hear Stiles voice break. “I don't know! I've never done it before,” Stiles panted. His voice went up an octave. “Please fuck me, Peter.” 

“One more finger.” Peter said soothingly. He wanted to put his whole fist up there, to see nothing but wrist, but he was still counting on another day. 

Peter made quick work, ready to be inside the boy. His cock hadn't given him a moment of peace, pulsing against the harsh denim over the thin cotton. Peter shoved his pants off, taking his boxers with it, after he finished prepping Stiles. He always kept a condom in his back pocket, and fetched it to roll up his dick. He wasn't arrogant, knowing that he had a good size and a modest girth, but Stiles still eyed him like he was all he wanted in the world. 

Peter was happy to comply for this moment. 

He ushered them slightly up the bed, aware that he was going to have to change comforters. After they were where they needed to be, Peter settled himself in between Stiles’ legs, lifting him up slightly. “Please…” Stiles breathed. 

Pushing in was amazing. The wet heat greeted him in the most swallowing of ways. He just wanted to go all the way in, and not mind how it may have hurt the boy under him. But then he wouldn't get to finish. 

Stiles groaned too as he began to sink further. His chest was heaving, and it was like Peter could hear the expanding of his lungs. He waited, oh how he waited patiently, for Stiles to okay him to move. 

Peter dragged back out, fighting every urge to fuck brutally and let the thick, slick muscle pull his baser desires out of him. After a few careful thrusts, Stiles clinging to his biceps, he finally cried out, “Fuck me like you mean it.” 

He stopped for a moment, stunned that Stiles gave such a command. He didn't know the kid for long, but from what he had seen, the boy was awkward and clumsy. Not strong willed. But he was happy to comply. He kneaded his fingers deeply into Stiles’ thighs, pushing them away before using them to slam back into Stiles – who cried out as if this was what he wanted. 

It took a few tries before Peter could find the right angle, but he did. Stiles screamed, his nails digging so sharp that blood welled up under Peter's skin. “Oh, oh, Peter, it hurts! Let me come, I need to so bad.” 

The pain didn't bother him so much, a sharp stinging to go along with the way he would slap across Stiles when he bottomed out. He was riding in an ever rising wave towards a crashing orgasm and could barely be upset about anything. But Stiles removed one of his hands to reach down to take the bracelet off and Peter's brain short-circuited. He forgot that Stiles wasn’t his to manhandle and control, but he still grabbed at his hand, holding it up and away. Peter growled a little, a gravel mixing in with his short breaths. 

The change in position made him lose some momentum but he snapped his hips sharply a few more times until everything was becoming much too intense. He abandoned any sense of rhythm, reaching between Stiles and him to slip the bracelet off. The entire cock seemed wet with precome, but Peter knew Stiles would thank him after he crashed back down. 

Right as he pulled it off, he couldn't help but stare at how desperate Stiles looked. His grip tightened on his hand, a knuckle partially cracking near his ear. The soft skin was so close to him, and he was so close to completion, there was no helping it. Peter let himself sink his teeth into the inside of his wrist, and bite so hard he tasted blood. 

He knew he blacked out for a moment during orgasm, but he was pretty sure Stiles had passed out from the force of his.  
\--  
Stiles woke up with a pain on his arm, a sore ass, and an overall satisfied memory. Then he realized he never left. He sat up on the bed, in the sheets. There was a covering over his wrist, and his hamper was at the foot of the bed. His clothes were folded. 

Stiles was having a hard time processing things, because, unless he bought a flat screen and a king bed, he was still at Peter's. That's when the man in question wandered in with two steaming cups. 

“How are you?” He asked pleasantly. Stiles was so surprised that he hadn't been shoved out after sex that he was having a hard time answering. “You seem fine. You know, we should talk about how you really shouldn't watch delicates like lingerie on regular wash.” 

He walked over to the bed, a soft gray tee on and a pair of sweat pants. He sat down next to Stiles, kind of leaning off the bed, before handing a cup to him. Stiles carefully took it from Peter, seeing that it was obviously hot. 

It was coffee.


End file.
